Текст книги "Playing with Fire "

Автор книги: Kate Meader

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She stood at the exam room door, holding on to the frame like she needed it for support. With her hair in an unruly mess, that fantasy body draped in a hospital gown, and a hint of a pink bra strap, she projected a bewildering combination of fragility, strength, and womanhood.

Bold and resolute, she held his gaze.

“I’d like to talk to the mayor.”

The door shut with a soft snick. Eli stood back on his heels, staring at her, a pillar of stock-still energy. His gaze traveled over her face, seeming to scan for injuries, blemishes, God knew what. Her own gaze matched his in intensity.

She couldn’t not look at him.

Tiredness should have ruled his handsome face, but he wore the brute demeanor of a man who could haul rocks from a quarry or throw boulders over bridges and still have energy to spare. Streaks of dirt on his face and dots of blood on his shirt collar only added to the impression of undiluted virility. He was a former Marine who had been captured in Afghanistan, and she’d often wondered how someone so adamantly metrosexual could have survived in that Taliban dungeon. Now she knew. Tonight she had seen a different side to him, and her life was forever changed.

It must be the drugs talking—except she wasn’t on any.

“How are you? Your head?” Her voice sounded raw, the ravaging aftereffects of the smoke still present.

His fingers flew to the stitches. “I’m sure people will say it can only help.” His voice had a grate similar to hers, further confirmation that they had entered some crucible together and emerged changed.

Her first save and it had to be him.

The first time she needed saving and . . . God.

“You should sit down.” He moved forward, to guide her, so she took a seat on the bed before he could make physical contact. If he touched her, she might break down or, worse, fall into the inviting cage of his arms. In her flimsy hospital gown, she felt curiously exposed. Her nail-varnished toes winked at her beneath the garish lights. A little chipped since she’d applied it for her date from hell a few days ago, the last time she had seen the man before her.

If she’d thought that sitting would keep him at a safe distance, she was sorely mistaken. In a couple of ground-eating strides, he was towering over her and had taken her face between his hands, his eyes searching hers intensely. The intimacy of it shocked her.

“Alexandra, are you hurt?”

“J-just my throat. My breathing is back to normal.” Or it had been until Eli walked in looking like James Bond on steroids. She fought to restore her lungs to their regular rhythm.

He drew his thumb in a sensuous line along her cheekbone, across her jaw, and it came to rest at the corner of her mouth. She wanted to jerk away, but in her weakened state, she was helpless to defy him.

Brows veed in dark, broody slashes, he dropped his hands. Surely she imagined the brush of his knuckles across the tattoos that adorned her biceps, the same ink that could be found on the arms of all her family members: her father, Sean and a pulsing green shamrock on the left, her brother, Logan and the intertwined letters of CFD on the right. The Dempseys’ fallen.

“Why the hell are you sitting here half naked? You must be freezing.”

“I’m okay—” But he was already wrapping his tuxedo jacket around her shoulders.

Well, then.

She foolishly enjoyed how feminine it made her feel. Silly, she knew, but Eli was built, a warrior in Armani, and his jacket felt like a protective cape. Like the next best thing to his arms around her.

Hold up there, missy. Maybe the mayor wasn’t the only one who’d suffered a brain injury tonight.

“You saved my life, Alexandra, for which I’m very grateful. However, people seem to be under the impression that it’s the other way around.”

“You don’t remember?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. Thick muscles bulged at the sleeves of his white shirt, the effect delicious. She struggled to focus on what he was saying.

“. . . the corridor. The smoke was thick, heavy.” His eyes met hers. The discomfort lurking there was not her imagination. “You gave me your air and then you helped me out, though I’m pretty sure I was walking under my own steam by then.”

She growled. It hurt her throat, but the physical reminder that he was a tool was most welcome. “Yes, please underplay any part I might have had in this.”

“Oh, hush. I suppose you’ll be wanting a medal,” he said, without any heat, and she managed to suppress a manic giggle. Oh, God, this sexy-hate thing between them was crazy. She felt an overwhelming urge to both punch him and hug him.

“I’m trying to fathom what came next,” he said.

That part was still a haze of broken images, ragged sounds, and acrid smells. “Without my mask, I inhaled smoke. Next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, fighting for air. Wy told me what happened later.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You mean it wasn’t captured on camera like every other dramatic moment in your life?”

“No, but don’t fret, you’ve emerged from this looking like an all-American hero. Apparently you appeared in the Drake’s lobby, shouting for medical help.” She added in a smaller voice, “for me. You don’t remember that?”

He scratched his forehead, near his stitches, making her wince at the possibility of reopening the wound. “Vaguely. I must have passed out again just after. But—” Bafflement clouded his brow. “This is just the epilogue. What happened in the corridor between you and me is the real story.”

“Well, Mr. Mayor, perception is reality, and plenty of witnesses in that lobby perceived the reality of you saving me. That’s what will make national headlines.” Just her dumb luck. She saved the bastard only to have him save her right back—and of course he had witnesses to his heroics. By the time the spin doctors got through with this, Eli would have rescued a gaggle of nuns, a litter of puppies, and half of Engine Company 6.

Eli shook his head. “The truth will be told and your efforts will be recognized. Tomorrow you’ll be standing next to me in a press conference when I make a statement about tonight’s events.”

Getting credit should have pleased her, but the idea of facing the press after all the craziness of several months ago reared a rush of panic in her chest. “Can’t you just release the statement now? A press conference seems unnecessary.”

Eyes alight, his mouth curved into a snake’s smile. “And miss an opportunity to cement your status as America’s Favorite Firefighter? Oh no, I wouldn’t want to deny you your moment in the sun. Now, there’s something else. My memory might be cloudy on some of tonight’s events, but I do recall that I fought you when you tried to put on the mask. I’m sorry about that. My delay placed your life in danger.”

Caught off guard at his surprise flip of the conversation, not to mention his unadorned apology, she inhaled a sharp breath. “You were panicked and it was my job to calm you down.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

She slid to a stand and placed a hand on his arm. Heat fired through her. “Eli, no one knows how they’re going to react in that type of situation.”

The dimple awoke from its slumber. “You called me Eli.”

She made a sound, low in her throat. Still hurt.

“And you’re not even angry with me,” he added.

“I’m permanently angry with you, Cooper. Even when I’m saving your life.”

His smile was grim and shockingly potent. “I’ve been in worse situations than tonight, Alexandra. I’ve been shot, stabbed, and held captive by terrorists. I’ve endured city council meetings where I wanted to murder every alderman in the room. I once dated a woman who made me sit through four-hour operas with only one ten-minute intermission. They really need more intermissions than that, don’t you think?” His perturbed frown at the memory drew her reluctant smile. “Not once did I lose my head, but that mask . . . I’ve been slightly claustrophobic since I was a kid and I’ve managed to control it all my life until tonight.”

Everything softened in her at that, but then she remembered that she felt that way about abused puppies and solo shoes on the highway. She settled for a charitable pat of his arm. His hot-blooded, muscle-corded, oh-my-God arm.

“If you’re worried I’m going to tell anyone, then don’t be.”

His frown deepened. “Tell the world for all I care. I’m more concerned with how I placed you in jeopardy. It’s a man’s job to take care of—”

“Be careful, Mr. Mayor.”

“A woman. So it’s a good thing I made up for it by saving your ass.”

Mother of Sorrows, give her strength. Knowing that if she let her hand remain on his arm, she would start to squeeze the life clean from it, she took a step back. For her sanity and for his safety.

Mayor saved from fire; later dies from bedpan-inflicted head wound.

Pushing up his link-studded cuff, he checked his watch. “Get some sleep and I’ll see you at city hall at 9:30. Don’t be late.” With a twist of that hard, muscled body she should have left to rot in that hotel corridor, he walked toward the door.

“And Alexandra?”

“What?” she snapped.

He smiled over his shoulder, all wolf. “Happy New Year.”

 CHAPTER FOUR

Needing one more minute of the pulsing hot spray over his tired muscles, Eli fisted his hands against the tile in his shower and let the water do its holy work. Usually he used shower time to psych himself up for the rest of the day. But this morning, in the wake of last night’s misadventure, he had more than the usual crowding his packed-to-capacity brain. Coming close to taking a dirt nap will do that.

He hadn’t found God, or suddenly realized that his workaholic ways were standing in the way of a satisfying personal life—a brush with death wasn’t that revelatory—but it did clarify one thing.

Eli had to break Sam Cochrane’s hold over him.

As mayor of Chicago, it went without saying that he was beholden to a number of competing interests. A man in his position did not get to be in his position without making a Faustian bargain or two. He wanted to rule. Someone else inevitably wanted something that only the ruler could give: a favorable decision, a ringing endorsement, the chance to bask by association. The quid pro quo was the foundation of the political system.

Sam Cochrane had been a close friend of Eli’s father, their families’ connection solidified throughout the years of Eli’s idyllic childhood. Vacations at the Cooper cabin at Lake Culver in Indiana, barbecues at the Cochrane mansion in the Gold Coast. That all changed with his parents’ senseless murders when Eli was twelve years old. Targeted by a mob boss he was prosecuting, Weston Cooper and his wife, Sara, were brutally gunned down by an assassin’s .44 in their living room.

One floor below where Eli stood now. While his parents’ lifeblood ebbed away, Eli had pissed his pants in a closet.

Almost twenty years later, Sam Cochrane—media mogul, real estate baron, and kingmaker—had bankrolled Eli’s first election campaign. Once in power, Eli was careful to pay homage by making sure some of Cochrane’s real estate proposals were approved without fuss, but he refused to cave to corporate interests on tax rates and property development incentives. So began the push-pull, with Cochrane calling the mayor out in his newspapers whenever something went wrong at city hall. Such as a brawl between CFD and CPD in a firefighter-owned bar. Or a spat between a female firefighter and a raving, drunken lunatic. In the last three years, Cochrane had been a frenemy and, increasingly, a liability. Eli’s preference was to cut him loose, but he had a problem. Cochrane had leverage, an ace in his back pocket that he could produce at will. He could tank Eli’s campaign, but worse than that, a reputation would be destroyed. A legacy would be ground into dust.

Eli couldn’t let that happen, so for now he had to work with Cochrane and figure out a way to undermine his influence. Standing up to the man who pulled the strings would take guts, bravery Eli was unsure he possessed.

Bravery he was unsure he even wanted to possess—until last night, when he’d been faced with the pulse-pounding heroism of one Alexandra Dempsey. Who had also, coincidentally, stood up to Sam last summer and put her career on the line to defend her family and everything she stood for. If she could be brave, he sure as hell could—and should—be.

And that, children, is an example of what we call irony. Was he seriously considering taking life lessons from Ms. Impetuosity herself?

He turned up the temperature of the shower spray, needing the exorcising burn.

He had almost kissed her.

Almost.

Holding on to that precious word, the one that kept him on the right side of a sexual harassment suit, his brain rewound to the hospital room at Northwestern Memorial. She had looked so vulnerable in that gown, like she might collapse at any moment. Instinctually, he had held her face in his hands, let himself enjoy the softness of her skin. Inappropriate behavior on his part, he knew, but they had passed through something together. A connection forged in fire.

A connection he could use, the cynic in him latched on to. He’d milk the publicity for all it was worth and return to normal, or what passed for normal in his crazy life.

But . . .

She wore pink underwear.

How ridiculous that a sliver of satiny fabric could get him so jacked up. But it wasn’t just that he’d seen a glimpse of Alexandra Dempsey’s sexy underwear. It was what that bra strap told him about I-can-do-any-man’s-job, look-at-my-tough-girl-tattoos, call-me-Dempsey-Mr.-Mayor.

This woman had a feminine, sensual side under that armored exterior. He’d caught a hint of naughty pink that night in the restaurant, as well, the night Detective Martinez had dared to think those sweet lips of hers were his for the taking.

The water crashed over his aching shoulders, sluicing down his chest and falling away in miniwaves over his now very stiff cock.

Well, hello there.

He gripped it with a teasing stroke, let his imagination run riot. He liked it gentle to start with, and it might take her time to learn that, but the lesson would be worth teaching.

Alexandra Dempsey on her knees. That’s what her dud date had wanted. That’s what he couldn’t have because that pleasure, at least in Eli’s filthy fantasies, belonged to him.

She was a city employee, his subordinate. Off-limits. Which made the idea of dominating her all the more sweet. Commanding her to take him in her mouth, swirl her tongue around the fat, bulging head swollen and primed to please her. In the shower’s heat, rougher strokes followed as his hand mimicked what Alexandra’s would do. She would enjoy taking a firm grip. She’d enjoy making him beg for that erotic friction, thinking she had some power over him.

But he wouldn’t give it to her. Just as he was her boss, he was the boss of this fantasy. He controlled his release. All of it.

His balls tightened and heat built at the base of his spine. Alexandra’s mouth increased its suction, sucking the head back to graze her throat, and she hummed her pleasure. Those sage-green eyes, insolent as the day is long, met his, begged, and . . . he let go in ropy spurts against the tile, his reward for a hard night and months of pent-up sexual frustration.

Amazing how a fantasy orgasm with Alexandra Dempsey was better than any actual release he’d had inside a woman.

Stepping out of the shower a few minutes later, Eli was pruned, half-sated, and still clueless about how to move forward on the Cochrane question. He threw on sweats and socks and headed downstairs, checking his messages as he went. Twelve from Madison—wonder what those were about. A couple from Kenneth Dubois, his chief of staff. Setting them aside until later, he scrolled through his contacts until he found one particular entry.

Splinter.

With a few taps, he upgraded her to Thorn. Smiled to himself like a fool.

The smells assaulted him first, followed closely by the sound of clanking pots. Fucker did it to annoy him, no doubt. He’d seen Brady Smith in action in his kitchen at Smith & Jones and he never made as much noise there as he did when cooking breakfast at Eli’s house.

Shadow, his Lab-collie mix, ambushed Eli with a full-on lick attack before he’d made it to the kitchen island. His shiny black coat felt comforting under Eli’s hands, and he spent a few moments on extra ear rubs because Shadow liked it and Eli needed it.

“Hey, fella, would you even care if I was gone?” Shadow raised those sad puppy eyes that got him out of trouble constantly. If only Eli could use that one to appeal to the voters.

“Yeah, you’d care about where your next meal would come from.”

With what looked like an eye roll at Eli’s cynical assessment of the situation, Shadow abandoned him to rub against Brady’s leg. His brownnosing was rewarded when Brady dropped a piece of bacon to the floor. Eli poured a cup of coffee neat. Took a seat at the island.

Brady still hadn’t said a word, but then this was par for the course, and why the hell should the fact Eli almost died less than twelve hours ago change the habit of a lifetime? It had started two summers ago when Brady moved to Chicago from Paris, where he had apprenticed at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Each Wednesday and Saturday, Brady hit the Green City farmers’ market in Lincoln Park a few steps from Eli’s door. Afterward, he would amble over to Eli’s brownstone, let himself in, and start on breakfast. Now, even when there was no market in the winter and no reason why Brady should be up so early on the opposite side of town from where he lived, he still stopped by.

The two men went way back to their Marine Corps training nearly fifteen years ago, both of them having enlisted on 9/12. As part of an elite team, they had lived in each other’s space and knew when to give each other that same space when needed. For the majority of their military careers, Brady had been Eli’s CO, but it had been closer to joint rule. With Brady’s taciturnity, Eli was often the backboard-slash-translator for their squad. They had worked well together and remained good friends.

There was also the little matter of Eli saving Brady’s life in a desert dungeon.

Within minutes of Eli taking a seat, Brady set the plates down—omelets laced with tomatoes, caramelized onions, and herbs, and a side of apple-smoked bacon and chicken sausage—and took a seat himself. In comfortable silence, they ate and drank. Shadow turned on the eyes. Eli fed him a sausage.

Brady finally spoke. “Alex Dempsey is fuckin’ pissed.”

“You have personal knowledge of this?”

“Gage was able to convey her outrage pretty well. Thinks you’re going to scoop up all the glory. Per usual.”

Eli couldn’t help his smile. The perennially entertaining Alexandra Dempsey.

“I’ve no intention of holding back the kudos. She did me a solid.” More than that, she had calmed him through his panic at feeling entombed in that mask, a phobia that went back to his parents’ deaths. And as if it wasn’t bad enough he had shown weakness, he had to make it worse by admitting it to her in that hospital room.

“None of them like you,” Brady commented. “Though Alex knows barely half the reasons she don’t like you.”

“If you’re referring to my disposal of her date last week, that was merely me protecting her from yet another bad decision.”

Brady hitched an eyebrow, which served to smooth his skin near his scarred temple. They were the scars Eli could see, but he knew there were more. Under his clothes, etched on his psyche. But he seemed to be coming to terms with all that shit he’d endured, with Gage’s help.

“Gage says she’s looking for somethin’ real but she has a hard time on dates. Scares them dickless.”

Quelle surprise. “Of course she does. She’s a menace.”

“You want to do her so bad it’s not even funny.”

Eli let that go without a response, his brain snagged on something else Brady had said. “What do you mean she’s looking for something real?”

“She wants to find someone who gets her. Respects her.” At that, Brady offered a smartass squint. “Her OTL.”

“OTL?”

“One true love.”

Jesus. “Well, she won’t find it with the likes of Detective Martinez.” Eli sipped his coffee, choosing to refocus on his political problems instead of Alexandra Dempsey’s search for love in all the wrong places. “I could ride the wave of saving her, but—”

“That would be despicable, even for a black-hearted politico like you.”

“Right.” Contrary to the urging of his campaign manager, he had no intention of spinning this so Alexandra was cut out and made to look like the damsel in distress. But he needed to work it to his advantage all the same. “Madison thinks she might be of some benefit to the campaign. Get me closer to the unions, the people. Which means I need to get her on board.”

“You’re gonna have to grovel.”

“That’s not a good look for me.”

Brady’s mouth contorted into a grin. “Lots of guys I know would disagree. You on your knees is probably fantasy number one in every bar on Halsted. Good thing you’re not my type.”

“Yeah, I’m not twenty-five and blond and up for anything.” He rolled his neck, working out a kink. “So how’s that going?”

Brady slid off the stool and took the plates to the sink. For a moment, Eli thought he wouldn’t speak, but he knew that giving his friend time was the way to go.

“Okay, I s’pose.” He rinsed the plate and racked it in the dishwasher. “Better than okay. Really good, to be honest.”

Eli’s heart squeezed. He hadn’t dared to hope when he brought Gage into Brady’s kitchen at Smith & Jones six months ago. Brady’s darkness needed a spotlight and there was none bigger than Gage Simpson.

“Glad to hear it. Rather you than me with that family, though.”

“They’re good people. Look out for each other.” Brady rubbed his chin, a rare smile breaking wide. “You could just ask her out, y’know.”

“I could also jump in the lake or put my head in the oven or set my hair on fire.” Realizing that none of those things sounded like an adequate rebuttal to Brady’s proposition, he regrouped. “I’m not interested. She pushes my buttons, that’s all.” Bands of muscles tightened across his stomach as he remembered exactly which buttons were pushed during this morning’s steamy shower.

Grinning like he knew all Eli’s secrets, which wasn’t so far from the truth, Brady headed to the door. This happy, shiny version of his friend was most disconcerting.

“Anytime you want to double date with Gage and me, you just let us know. We’re always up for helping the course of OTL.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eli called out, but Brady was already gone, the ghost of his unfamiliar laugh lingering in the air.

In the restroom of city hall’s fifth floor, Alex peered at her reflection in the dull-lustered mirror. Her stupid mane of curls refused to cooperate and she was trying to bobby-pin it into submission so her cap wouldn’t just sit at a jaunty angle on top. All her brothers managed to look like gods in the Chicago Fire Department dress uniform, but on Alex, it looked like she was back in St. Jude’s, hoping to avoid a beatdown from the nuns.

The tie choked her airway. The navy buttoned-up jacket pressed in like a band of steel around her breasts, which right now felt like half her body weight. Could they have grown since she wore it last at her academy graduation? She kept herself in shape, but Lord knew what was going on between all the stress of the last few months and the fact that she was mainlining her weight in squash blossoms on her weekly dates. Now that food had replaced sex in her life, she could barely get into her own pants, which were currently cinching her waist and sitting far too snugly over her butt.

In three minutes, she had to go out and smile for reporters and cameras and look boundlessly grateful to the mayor because he saved her life. He claimed he’d tell the truth, but she didn’t believe him. This morning’s front page of the Chicago Tribune said it all:

Mr. Mayor Saves Ms. Firefighter

Op-ed encapsulated in a five-word headline. Sam Cochrane, owner of the Trib, the mayor’s largest donor, and the Dempseys’ biggest hater, was having a field day over at his paper.

It had made national, too. Today did a piece, casting Eli in a heroic light. And yes, Alex knew he had saved her, but damn, it was so unfair. His junkyard dog, Madison Maitland, had already pulled Alex aside this morning to impress on her the urgency of “getting the story right.”

We love that you saved the mayor. So, so great! But when asked, keep the conversation to the part where he carried you out. That’s the focus we want here.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Madison had hinted at plans for the campaign, nonsense about how Alex would be expected to fall into line with appearances to make the mayor look good. Some bullshit about ball games and “maximizing the story’s potential.”

The idea of spending time with Eli Cooper turned her inside out with a flapping panic. A strangely sickening, yet pleasurable feeling.

“Hey, babe.”

In the mirror, Alex saw Kinsey step inside, wearing a snappy red suit that clung to her petite-framed curves. Out in Chiberia, it was four inches of filthy snow mush, but as always, Cali girl Kinsey looked like the shit in heels.

“What are you doing here?”

With a flick of her blond hair, she grinned. “Couldn’t leave you alone with M Squared and the Snake.”

Alex giggled, the release blanketing her nerves somewhat. “That sounds like an eighties rap duo.” Her levity fled as she caught her reflection in the mirror once more. “I can’t do anything with my hair.”

“Here, let me.” Kinsey, efficient to her bones, took charge and managed to get it under her cap. “So, has Madison tried to bully you? Working with her every day, I know how difficult she can be.”

“I’m to ensure the story reflects well on the boss.”

Kinsey held her gaze in the mirror, Mama Bear ferocity in her expression. “Now, listen to me. You saved his life, and no matter what happened afterward, that is the take-home here. If either of them tries to minimize your contribution, I’ll get up on that podium and unleash my wrath.”

“And I’ll be right behind her.”

Darcy walked in, looking like a rock ’n’ roll Snow White in leather, lace, and fuck-yeah ink. The woman was well known as one of the best tattoo artists in Chicagoland, and the intricate swirls and patterns on her forearms were a testament to her amazing skills. “This doesn’t look like much of a party, ladies. Should I break out my vodka stash?”

“God, I wish I could be drunk while I do this.” Alex hugged Darcy.

“Beck thought you might need some support, but to be honest, Eli’s not going to screw you over. I’ve known him all my life. He’s a really decent guy.” She saw the look Kinsey and Alex exchanged. “Okay, so you’ve both had different dealings with him, but I know he’s fair. And if he isn’t, we’ve got your back.”

Warmth spread like molasses across Alex’s chest. She’d always had a hard time making girlfriends, but since her brothers hooked up with these two awesome women, she’d felt truly blessed. Her mom used to say, Surround yourself with people who love and support you, then love and support them right back. And Alex was a fully paid-up subscriber.

“I’m just so nervous. I hate public speaking, all this crap.”

Kinsey straightened Alex’s tie. “For someone who despises being the center of attention, you sure do manage to attract it.”

“I can’t help it. Trouble seems to find me.”

“So said every felon in Cook County Correctional Center,” Darcy said drily.

A flash of light buzzed Alex’s eyes, forcing her to grab Kinsey’s hand, the one with the new addition the size of Jupiter. “Ohmahgerd, Luke popped the question?”

“At dinner last night. I thought you’d never notice.”

The three of them screamed so loudly the mayor’s cut crystal decanters probably shattered in his office.

“Why didn’t you say anything at the hospital?”

“We had something else on our minds.” Kinsey squeezed Alex’s arm. “You scared everyone half to death, especially Luke. You know how he is.”

Luke had taken on the role of Dempsey dad when Sean and Logan died, and had always been the most protective of her older siblings. The episode with Alex and Cochrane had almost ended things between Kinsey and Luke, and now here she went again, upstaging the happy couple with her shenanigans.

“Took him long enough to do the deed,” Darcy said, fingertips on her chin, unsubtly showcasing her own hand complete with the beautiful sapphire Beck had given her last September. “Four whole months together and about to buy a house. You even have a puppy!”

Kinsey’s eyes twinkled with emotion and pride. “I told him that I’d have said yes the day I came back to Chicago to be with him, but he wanted to save up for the ring. Do it old school.” She’d been engaged before to some hotshot surgeon, which Alex suspected left Luke feeling competitive when it came to the bling.

They all gazed at the ring again and exhaled a chorus of happy, girly sighs. Then Kinsey cleared her throat in a back-to-business fashion. “Now you’re the hero, babe, and make sure no one forgets it. But with that said, just try to stay cool in there, ’kay?”

“You mean, don’t pull a Luke?”

Kinsey chuckled. “You two might not be related by blood, but you are very, very alike.”

Eli strode toward the media room on the fifth floor of city hall where the reporters were waiting to grill him.

“Mr. Mayor,” he heard Mads call behind him. “Your jacket.”

He stopped and thrust out his hand, while his assistant, Whitney, handed over his gray Armani suit coat. As he drew it on, he took a moment to pull on his cuffs. Dial up his game face. Ignore Alexandra Dempsey, who was standing a few feet off to the side, shuffling from one foot to the other.

The low hum of the reporters hushed as he walked into the media room.

“Good morning”—vultures and vulturesses—“ladies and gentlemen.”

Murmurs of “Mr. Mayor” waved over the room, as gentle as the Lake Michigan surf in summer, but he knew better. He’d take a gym hall of disgruntled voters or a city council chamber of drunken aldermen before he’d choose to spend a moment with this barrel full of snakes. The media room was like a bad comedy club with a three-drink minimum.